Phoenix Rising

by Rebecca Harwell

  “No!” she shouted, but she was too slow. Despite everything, the Duke would die, and with him, Storm’s Quarry would crumble.

  The arrow burst into flames. Heat seared Nadya’s face as she stumbled back. When the fire vanished, Duke Isyanov stood unharmed but for the splash of cinders on his chest. He shook, and Marko grabbed his arm, steadying him.

  “Anyone else?” Shay’s voice broke the sudden quiet of the hall. She came to stand next to Nadya.

  Relief kept her from speaking, but Nadya grasped Shay’s hand and tried to put all her gratitude into that one touch. Behind her, she heard Kesali’s sharp intake of breath.

  They stood together, between the royal family of Storm’s Quarry and Councillor Aster and her soldiers. Two nivasi, clothed in darkness and mystery, one bearing blades of pure fire, the other hands of iron. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, and their very presence was a challenge.

  The Guard moved to circle the remaining soldiers. Shadar himself emerged with a gasping Aster, his rapier a threat at his side.

  From behind them, Kesali walked forward. She looked at Nadya and Shay, and gave the tiniest nod. Then she turned to the Councillor. “I told you Storm’s Quarry stands protected. We will not yield. Not today, and not ever.”

  Nadya could not be sure where it began, but a rousing cheer grew until the very walls of the throne room shook with the cries and whoops of the people of Storm’s Quarry. She and Shay retreated behind the throne as the crowds surged forward. This was not the time for vigilantes, but for Duke Isyanov, Lord Marko, and Kesali. For Guardmaster Shadar. For their leaders, the ones who inspired hope and quelled fear.

  “We won,” Shay whispered once the shadows hid them.

  “We did,” Nadya said, watching as courtiers and commoners alike swarmed the dais, their awe of their new future duchess evident on their faces. Not even the presence of two nivasi, looming in the background like feral guard dogs, could dissuade their enthusiasm. Shadar had to have his men clear a path to remove the Wintercress prisoners from the hall.

  “Shadow Dragon. And here I was hoping to get out of this mess without a silly nickname. Is this how you felt when they gave you yours?”

  Nadya swatted playfully at her, and Shay caught her hand. Warmth turned into heat as tiny flames raced over their intertwined fingers. Suddenly, the noise of the hall faded, leaving her with Shay’s quickened heartbeat and her own, just as fast. “Yes,” she whispered, throat dry. “Couldn’t believe it.”

  “Well, the Iron Phoenix is a symbol. Of hope and whatnot,” Shay replied. Her voice was husky, its usual mirth-filled edge absent.

  “And now the Shadow Dragon is a hero.”

  “I’m not a hero. I almost…I would have let this city die.” Her words cracked, and when Shay looked at Nadya next, tears shone at the edge of her eyes.

  “No,” Nadya said, brushing her hand along Shay’s chin. “You would never. Even after I betrayed you. I lied to you, and you came back. You are a greater hero than you could ever know.”

  Shay opened her mouth, staring at her. One moment passed, then another, and there was only them, two nivasi in the center of Storm’s Quarry. Two outcasts turned guardians. Two friends turned something more.

  “Curse your costume,” Shay mumbled, pressing her forehead against Nadya’s. “I want to be kissing you right now.”

  Nadya was so far gone into those dark eyes, as black as Gedeon’s and yet holding warmth that the Chaos-maker could never have conjured, no matter his power. In those eyes, she knew his final chains would be broken.

  “Lots of time for that,” she whispered, drawing Shay toward her with a hand on her back.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Phoenix.” Shay released her. Her eyes darted everywhere but Nadya’s face. “I should go. Jeta will be waiting with more work, no doubt. Saving the city does not stoke the forge fires, after all. Good-bye, Nadya,” she said, whispering the name.

  Nadya caught herself reaching forward, her skin craving contact again. She lowered her hand. “Good-bye.” Nadya bit her lip, watching as Shay retreated into the darkness. She hated how final it sounded.

  Is this to be just as the Blood Sun Solstice was, she asked in silent prayer, eyes never leaving the doorway through which Shay had vanished. To stand in bittersweet victory, more difficulties looming, watching someone leave?

  Someone I care for. Someone I love.

  She grasped the metal of her seal, anchoring herself. Protectress, if my life is in your hands. If I am a tool to be used to protect our people, then by the stars, give me…

  “Give me something,” she whispered, unable to finish the prayer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Most of the new Guardhouse construction was yet to be finished, rough stone needing an overlay of wood, doorways lacking hinges, and the pipes meant to pump water down to the privies dry as bone. As such, the office of the Guardmaster held little more than a table and a few crates within its walls. Sunlight streamed in through the window frames, unfiltered by glass. The glow highlighted the growing number of silver hairs her father had earned. Nadya stood in the double doorway where strong maple doors would one day stand. She watched her father bend over the table, scribbling notes on the top layer of parchment. His immaculate uniform now bore a bronze sun at the collar, denoting his new status. The promotion fit him well. No doubt he would look every bit a Guardmaster at this evening’s ceremony.

  She cleared her throat. “I thought you would be at the palace by now. Surely Marko is going frantic about having the Guard in place.”

  Shadar looked up, expression lightening. “I’m sure he has far more important things on his mind. It is still several hours before the doors open for public admittance, enough time for me to get a few things done.”

  “You work too hard, you know.” She set a paper sack on top of the parchment he was looking at. Scents of crisp ham and fresh cilantro wafted from the sack, and her father smiled.

  “You are too kind, Nadya.” He moved the bag aside to finish one last note, adding, “I do not think I am working hard enough, to be honest. It seems like there is someone in this city who is bent on doing my job for me.”

  “Oh?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Three weeks since the Ceremony of Annexation failed, and our waters run clean. Seems that someone has taken the time to root out the final hidden contingents of Cressian soldiers. We’ve had a few delivered to the prison nearly every day.” Shadar’s face quickly dissolved into a grin as he spoke. He held out his arms, and Nadya hugged him. He smelled of weapon polish and, she realized with a lurch in her stomach, Mirela’s gem oils.

  She stepped back, pushing back her sudden queasiness. “Well, I am not sure how that happened, but I am glad for Storm’s Quarry.”

  “Of course.” He looked down at her, pride unmistakably written across his features. He took a breath, hesitating. “Nadya, your mother…”

  So she remained an open book, at least to her father. She tried a smile, but it turned down at the edges. “She will come around.”

  “You are our daughter. She knows that.” He gripped her shoulder. “Do not lose hope. Your mother, she is as stubborn as your grandmother, but the Protectress will make her see. I know that she is proud of you, though centuries of Nomori teaching are telling her not to be.”

  “I guess that means you just are not a good Nomori,” Nadya said, trying to stave off the tears that threatened her eyes.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Never have been, I’m afraid. Drina found out too late. I had already married her daughter.” Shadar stepped back, taking Nadya’s hands in his. His eyes roved over her, shinier than she was used to seeing them. “I have always disliked saying good-bye. It feels too permanent.”

  “Papa, how did you—”

  “I know when my little girl has grown up. I know when she needs to stretch out her wings and leave for unknown skies.” He squeezed her hands. “And I know, Nadezhda Gabori, that we will see you again. And at tha
t moment, I will be even more proud of you than I already am.”

  The fight was lost, and the tears came. She hugged her father, memorizing his scent, his heartbeat. In return, he held her tightly, as if wanting to keep her here forever despite his words. Not even the arrival of a courier broke their good-bye, not until Shadar had given her every bit of fatherly advice imaginable, had embraced her twice more, and had told her that she was the most amazing daughter a father could hope for.

  She hoped that she would one day live up to such praise. As Nadya Gabori, not just the Iron Phoenix.

  The sun hit midday as she left the Guardhouse. Already, crowds had begun to gather before the gates of the palace. Nomori and Erevans stood side by side, all eagerly awaiting that evening. At sunset and star-rise, a bond would be forged between the two peoples, one that, Protectress willing, would not be broken by storms, floods, or the treachery of mankind’s hearts.

  Bright fabrics of gold and azure blew in the sea breeze—a good omen, Drina would say. Nadya stopped for a moment, scanning the crowd to see if any of her family was there. A few familiar faces stood out, but none were kin.

  One day, she told herself. One day, I will come home.

  Richly decorated maroon uniforms stood out at the edges of the crowd, standing to attention as children oohed over their shiny weapons. The Guard, in dress uniform, would hopefully be present only for show, a reassurance of the power that Storm’s Quarry provided. And the Iron Phoenix, she would be absent. No need to distract from the day’s festivities. Marko and his Guard were more than capable of dealing with any threats, and none of them needed to wear masks.

  A friendly guardsman, recognizing her as the daughter of their new commander, waved her in ahead of the grumbling crowd, and she set off down the marble floors of the palace. To the east, the throne room was being scrubbed by palace staff until it gleamed, the scent of pine oils causing Nadya to sneeze. Every surface she passed was draped with blue and gold ribbons and fabric, pearl and gemstone fragments augmenting the decorations. The wealth of Storm’s Quarry was on display.

  A message to the people: We are strong.

  A message to the handful of Wintercress spies that would no doubt make it through the gates: We are not cowed.

  Lord Marko caught her in the hall just as she passed the palace guardsmen into the private suite wing.

  “Nadya, you’re here!” he said, grasping her hand in a sweaty grip.

  She tried her best not to laugh. Marko wore a coat and breeches in the cut of the Duke’s Guard, but dyed a deep gold. With his red hair flattened against his head from a recent wash, he looked like a candle.

  “You look wonderful,” she said, smiling.

  Marko wrinkled his nose. “What does it mean if I can tell that a truthseer is lying? It’s horrible, right? But this nonsense is tradition, as I have been told by courtiers, clerics, and my father. At least I get to wear my rapier. Kesali was rather insistent upon it.” He grinned. “You ought to see her, Nadya.”

  “I am headed there.” She waited for the feelings of jealousy to overtake her, but none came. With a bit of a shock, she realized that she was genuinely happy for him, the young man she had envied since childhood.

  “Good. We will see you there, yes?” He glanced around. “Please, for the love of the gods, I cannot be left after the ceremony to the well wishes of a hundred stuffy old codgers looking for a favor.”

  “How can I deprive you of that?”

  “Nadya.”

  She did not have the heart to tell him the truth. “Yes. Now go. I am sure you have much to do.”

  He clasped her forearm before barreling off down the corridor. Over his shoulder, he called, “Make sure your father is here. If I have to sit through rehearsals, then our new Guardmaster should as well.”

  He will be a good leader, Nadya thought, watching Marko disappear around the corner. He has a good heart. If nothing else, the people of Storm’s Quarry need that.

  The door to Kesali’s chambers was locked. Nadya knocked, held her breath, and waited.

  “Who is it? I do not need another seamstress. Enough is enough, I say.”

  She stifled a grin. Yes, they were good for one another. “It’s Nadya.”

  A pause, then a latch clicked, and the door flew open, and Nadya lost what little breath she had.

  Kesali was stunning. Golden embroidery, in the shape of the sun and stars, winked at the edge of her soft blue tunic. Her hair carried new golden streaks, and it was done up in dual braids, artfully arranged at the back of her head—the hair of a Nomori bride. A comb of pearls rested against her dark curls. Matching pearls shone from her earlobes, their soft glow echoed in the face paint around her eyes. Scents of peppermint bathing oil filled the air around them.

  All Nadya could say was, “You look beautiful.”

  Kesali smiled tentatively, the dark rouge on her lips hiding none of her expression. “Thank you. Nadya—I—come in.” She ushered Nadya through the door.

  It had been a long time since the night she was here last. Little had changed, except for the bits of thread and silk that littered the floor. Kesali kicked one piece aside.

  “They cannot leave well enough alone. Only Marko and the Duke and the Head Cleric will be close enough to actually see the hems of my tunic. It’s not as if the courtiers will come up and inspect the needlework one by one. Protectress, I hope they don’t.” She was babbling, avoiding what needed to be said.

  Nadya cleared her throat. “I came to say good-bye.”

  “What?” Kesali shook her head. “The wedding, you aren’t staying for it? I—” She bit her lip and stepped back. “I understand, Nadya, I do. I have asked so much of you, given so little, and when you asked for my trust, I spat in your face.”

  “You were under a lot of pressure. We all were.”

  “No.” Kesali turned toward the window, where the crowds gathered below to witness even a glimpse of her wedding. “When I needed to be a leader, I was a petty, jealous girl. I love you, Nadya.”

  Kesali’s soft words hit her square in the chest. For years, how she had waited to hear them. In her dreams, she and Kesali sat alone on the rooftop of the Nomori public bath, feet kicking out over the side. Nadya presented her with a handful of white lilies stolen from the fourth tier, and the smile upon Kesali’s face was enough to melt stone. Their hands intertwined, then lips, and there, the life they would have together began.

  In that dream, Kesali looked as beautiful as she did today, but that beauty was for Nadya, not her upcoming wedding to Lord Marko.

  “I will always love you as well,” she stammered out when the silence had grown too long between them.

  “But not like this,” Kesali said for her. “Not the way I’ve asked you, in dark corners, stealing kisses when no one can see. Divorcing yourself from your nivasi blood. Watching me marry Marko and knowing that he always will have a part of me, one that you never could.”

  Stars, it hurt to hear the truth. “Yes.”

  “You are not coming tonight, are you.” It was not a question. Kesali turned back to her, eyes wet. The edges of the kohl around her eyes began to smudge. “I will not ask you to. Not after all the hurt I have caused you.”

  “It’s not that.” Nadya reached out and took her hand. “I won’t be there, yes.” She knew, as far as she had come, that Kesali was right. It would be too painful to watch the ceremony. “But that is not why I am here.”

  “You—you are leaving.” Kesali looked down at their hands. “Nadya, I did not mean for this. For you to feel as if you had to run away.”

  “I am not running away.” How to make her understand when Nadya herself had only just begun to? “Storm’s Quarry has been my home. My entire world. I need to see what lies beyond. I know who the Iron Phoenix is. I know who Nadya Gabori is. But I do not know how to be both. I cannot find that here.”

  “And when Wintercress makes good on their threats? When the city needs the Iron Phoenix?” An edge of panic crept into her vo
ice.

  “I will come,” Nadya said simply. Storm’s Quarry was a part of her, like the brown of her eyes or the breadth of her shoulders. Never would she leave the city to its fate, not if her presence could save it.

  Kesali nodded. “I believe you. I know the Iron Phoenix will not let our city fall. Nor will you have much to fear out there. But, Nadya, alone, out there? Without your family, your friends?”

  “Not alone. I will be—”

  Kesali exhaled. “With Shay.”

  “Yes.”

  The silence of the moment drew out between them. A dozen emotions warred on Kesali’s face, and Nadya wished she could comfort her. But they had both made their choices, and had choices made for them. She was the Iron Phoenix, and Kesali the Stormspeaker, and the Protectress had decided long ago, written it into the stars, that there was never meant to be anything between them.

  That thought did little to ease the pain.

  Kesali drew her hand away to place it on Nadya’s shoulder. “I wish you happiness, Nadya. That’s all I have ever wanted for you.”

  “I know.” And she did.

  *

  The lower tiers of Storm’s Quarry were uncharacteristically quiet, few murmurs except the winding blowing off the Kyanite Sea. Down here, the city seemed to hold its breath for the wedding of Lord Marko Isyanov and Kesali Stormspeaker, a union the stone itself hoped would bring an end to strife within its walls. With Wintercress’s threats looming tall from beyond the sea, such an end could not come quickly enough.

  Nadya hitched her pack on her shoulders, the bundled cloak of the Phoenix itching against her neck and the weight of the armor bouncing against her back. Her eyes drank in every stone, every storefront and culvert. It would be some time, she knew, before she saw Storm’s Quarry again.

  To her surprise, that thought did not carry much sadness. Even less so when she heard the caravan.

  Few figures moved through the narrow streets, and none made the ruckus of the final caravan. The Duke’s Guard had replaced the Cressian soldiers as its guardians, at least until the edge of the sea. As Nadya snuck up to the caravan’s end, she saw a tall, imposing woman arguing with a guardsman, who clung to his musket with determined, if shaking, hands.